


Wither

by Janekfan



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Apocalypse, BAMF Martin, Bathing/Washing, Because our boy never gives up, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Exhaustion, Fainting, Fever, Forehead Kisses, In true TMA fashion he never gets one, Jon needs a break, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Panic Attacks, Sickfic, Stuttering, Supernatural Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26050561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Jon isn't feeling so well after causing an apocalypse.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 24
Kudos: 270





	Wither

**Author's Note:**

> Because I can't stop hurting the Archivist. Because I need Martin to take care of this idiot.

“Come back to me. Come back to me, love.” 

Without Jon’s hysterical laughter or guttural sobbing, the cabin was thrown into eerie silence much worse for what lurked outside in this ruined landscape. The light coming in through the window cast a strange hue and Martin pulled the curtains against the Watching before falling to his knees beside the crumpled body, hands useless and fluttering.

“Jon? Jon-darling, please. _Please_.” What did bringing about an apocalypse take out of a man? He took his chances at touching him with no response. “Alright, alright. You’re alright.” Martin straightened him out flat on his back, checked for breaks (none), breathing (shallow, too fast), heartbeat (hammering), and lifted his legs into his lap. Elevate. Should help. Hopefully. Please. Jon had broken into a bad sweat, a hectic flush blossoming high in his face and his otherwise dark complexion ashen and washed out. His lips were moving feverishly, forming silent declarations in between gasping for air. 

They’d been used. All of them. To hurt each other, to hurt _Jon_ , funneled into this trap like rats in a maze but his anger and frustration wouldn’t help him here. Not with Jon down for the count and an Eldritch hellscape waiting on their doorstep. They were vulnerable here and it was up to Martin to secure the house as well as he could but that meant leaving Jon behind while he did it. 

“Alright, my darling.” Martin threaded his fingers with that of one lax hand, pressed a kiss to each frozen knuckle. When he lifted him, he was dead weight, and he didn’t want to think of the implications, instead, pressing another kiss to his burning forehead and lingering there, the sting of tears threatening and he allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, settle. Think. Jon was so slight in his arms, all sharp boney angles and faded constellations of scars. As much as Martin wanted to crawl into bed and hold him, he had to make sure they were as safe as they could be. Not sure if it would help, but it surely couldn’t hurt, he placed a damp flannel over his brow, smoothing it there, fussing, because if he left and something happened, he would never forgive himself but ultimately had to leave him still soundlessly murmuring his secrets. 

Glass wouldn’t keep much out, but the illusion was humanly comforting, and Martin locked all the windows and drew all the curtains. Checked the doors and closed any extra ones as an extra level of precaution. 

And he packed two bags because they would have to leave when Jon was well enough to travel. 

They couldn’t stay here.

They needed to fix this.

It was nearly another full day before Martin caught even a glimpse behind his eyelids, taking the opportunity to tip some water into him in between waves of muttering whenever he seemed aware enough to take it but other than that it was impossible to wake him. With an alarming amount of free time at his disposal, Martin spent it in bed with Jon and his nonsensical stuttering, holding him, stroking his back, his hair, his face, murmuring sweet nothings and bits of poetry in an attempt to get a rise out of him. But he was always so slack, so feverish. 

And so very far away. 

“Come back to me.” 

He was in the kitchen preparing a quick meal when an odd scuffling came from behind him and thinking the worst, that some fear creature snuck its way into their tiny sanctuary, he turned around brandishing the knife he was using with a threatening and quickly fading expletive.

“Mma’tin.” Slurring like he was three sheets to the wind and clinging for dear life to the door jamb on new fawn’s legs, Jon’s eyes headed skyward as his white-knuckle grip failed him.

“Jon! You--” He caught him under his arms when he tipped forward, bundling him close and checking the fever with the back of his hand on his forehead, his cheeks. Still so, so high. Too high, he was burning away to nothing with this supernatural ailment no medicine they’d tried had touched. “You need to rest.” Because it was the only thing they could do. Rest and hope that this was temporary. Jon tried to speak and it was like his words were jumbled up, as though they’d all been poured out like scrabble tiles and put back wrong. Sometimes there would be bits of statements, staticky, otherworldly and recognizable via tone alone, because nothing he said made any sense. “Hush, hush now, love.”

“Mm. Mmma’tin.” Another burst of static washed over them both, Jon writhed, syllables spilling from his lips like ink from a pen. 

“None other.” Stiff in his arms, Jon’s muscles painfully seized, the whole of him trembling and taut as a bowstring such that Martin was afraid they might actually snap. Gently, carefully, Martin tucked his face into his throat and massaged the length of Jon’s neck, down his shoulders and back up, working out the knots until he’d relaxed even a fraction. “Okay, it’s okay.” When he tried to lower him back into their bed, he wouldn’t let go and Martin didn’t have to heart to pry him away from the small comfort he’d found among whatever was happening in his mind. Instead he hugged him closer, until his lips were brushing against Martin’s skin, frenetic whispering rolling in and out, lulling him to sleep. 

Wretched, ragged screaming threw Martin into wakefulness like a bucket of ice water. It was dark in the room and disorienting and it took him far too long to realize what was happening because he didn't know a human could sound this way. 

“Jon!” At the surprised exclamation his wailing broke off and the whimpering began and Jon clawed at the scars the fears had marked him with such that Martin had to catch his hands, able to hold both wrists together in one of his own lest he draw blood and add to his collection.

“H’h’hurts, it _hurts_ , Mmmartin.” 

“What hurts?” Small though he was, Jon’s squirming made him difficult to hold on to. 

“Too m’m’much, t’too much to _Know_!” Voice like the peal of a bell, clear and panicked in the night and what could be out there listening to this? Waiting for a chance at the Archivist?

“Jon, Jon, how can I help?” Adjusting his hold, half pinning him with his greater bulk, hoping the pressure would help because he’d seen it help before. “Shh, shh, what do you need?” And he sobbed and sobbed, words becoming almost intelligible with static before snapping back into clarity. 

“I, I, I can’t hold--f’flooding in, l’l’like quaffing th’the ocean, and, ‘nd, ‘nd no _room_ , Martin,” Jon wept his name like a prayer, “Martin. Please. Make it. Make it stop. Martin, please. Please, Martin. I. S’t’too mmuch.”

“Soon, love, soon. It’s alright.” For all he knew he was feeding him lies. That the Knowing pouring into him was sure to be infinite and would never stop, that this was it for Jon, suffering this deluge for eternity and he would be here in never ending agony. 

“Martin.” Tears and crying and panic and please, please, please. Whatever god had hold of this place, please take pity on your Watcher. 

“Oh, love, I’m so sorry.” Jon began to wheeze, paling, panting, long fingers twitching, contorting. 

“Can’t. Can’t breathe.” 

“You can, darling. You can.” Gasping, heaving, panicking. “I’m right here, you can, listen, listen.” Martin shifted, pressing Jon’s ear against his chest, still gripping his spasming hands. “Listen. Shh, listen, breathe with me.” 

“I can’t, I c’c’can’t…can’t...” At this rate he was going to swoon if he didn’t calm down, and Martin rocked him back and forth, pressed kisses into his hair, to his feverish skin, while he suffocated under the weight of what Magnus made him do, of destroying the world, all of it crashing into him at once now that he’d somehow found his way back to him. “Oh, _god_ , m’sorry, m’so s’s’sorry.” 

“I’m here, hush now.” Jon sucked in a hard won breath, held onto it until it burst from his chest, and fought for another one. “You’re doing so well, Jon-darling.” When Martin released his hands they immediately wound their way into his jumper and he swept away the tears and swept them away again even though they kept coming. “What do you need?” 

“I. I, I. D’dunno.” When the light not blocked by the curtains filtered through and was absorbed by Jon’s gleaming eyes, Martin noticed a patina of unnatural green just behind the surface and he couldn’t help but think bitterly about one more change thrust upon him without choice. He was hiding in Martin’s arms now, back rising and falling in quick, labored succession. 

“That’s alright, you don’t have to know.” Lord knows he probably knew everything else. 

“F’feel. Feel strange, Martin.” Exhaled on a half breath and Jon finally, finally went loose in his embrace. 

“How so, love?” 

“S’ _hot_.” His skin was still nigh scalding to the touch. “M’head…” Martin didn’t know how long it had been, laying Jon against the pillow to get a better look at him, the sweat soaking his hair, his clothing. 

“How does a bath sound?” Perhaps a little more intimate than they had yet to speak about, but it looked like he could use one. 

“Mm.” Martin kissed his temple and tucked back some wayward flyaways.

“Shall I take that as a yes?” Without waiting for an answer he began drawing a bath, checking on Jon, already sprawled out and sleeping deeply in the few moments he’d been left alone. While the tub was filling with water just a few degrees on the cool side, he made up a mug of tea with a pinch of salt and a generous serving of honey and left it on the nightstand. “Ready?” Shaking him gently awake and smiling when Jon wrapped skinny arms around his neck in response, letting Martin shift him from bed to bath, stripping him of his clinging clothes before lowering him gently down. “Good?” He cupped water over his head, watching it trickle down the relaxing lines of pain on his face. 

“S’good.” He sounded drunk, slurring now because of exhaustion instead of the terrifying mix of terror and whatever the Beholding was pouring into him at the time. Jon nearly fell asleep under Martin’s fingers working lightly scented shampoo into his hair and rinsing carefully, keeping soap out of sleepy eyes, and then applying conditioner, teasing out tangles with his fingers for a bit to let it sit, let the heat keep leaching out of him until he felt cooler to the touch. Rinsed and dried and dressed in the softest clothes between them, Martin helped him drink down the lukewarm tea before tucking him back in bed.

“Feeling better?” Please. 

“Mmyeah…” He lifted his fingers off the quilt in some sort of gesture. “Quiet now. Doors.” Clearly knackered, he took a deep breath and tried again. “Closed.”

“Okay, okay,” and Martin found it in him to chuckle. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to explain, love.” The both fell silent, Jon following sleep’s seductive call in seconds after being stretched so thin and leaving Martin to envy him, to take his turn burying his face in Jon’s neck and drawing comfort in the action. In his even breathing, the pulse he could feel against the tip of his nose, the clean scent of his skin. He curled around his Archivist and dared the next thing to come and try its hand before letting himself fall gently down.


End file.
